


Malíbran

by AsadMinQamar



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Felix Mendelssohn - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsadMinQamar/pseuds/AsadMinQamar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liszt and Chopin go to the opera together and Chopin is being somewhat insufferable, but only because Liszt is thoughtless of his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malíbran

**Author's Note:**

> _Chopinetto_ = Chopin’s nickname, ‘little Chopin.’ It’s making fun of his height (5’7ish).  
>  _Felix_ = Felix Mendelssohn, who frequented the opera along with Liszt  & Chopin  
>  _Malibran_ = Famous opera singer of the time that Liszt was obsessed with  
>  and Chopin had an intense love for Italian Operas.

“Listen to her,” Franz whispers, “The perfected vibrato, intonation, embouchure, the passion of it... Her performance is exquisite!”

The pianist’s hushed words are the only sound in the opera house other than the rich singing of the leading lady, Malibran.

Frederic holds back a deep, nearly loathing sigh and hunches down in his seat.

“One would think a composer such as yourself would be more occupied with the actual composition,” he grumbles, mouth curved down in a frown, “Your obsession with this woman isn’t attractive, Franz.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Franz chides him, “The performance itself is half, if not more, of the composition. Could you imagine simply sitting at the piano without moving more than your fingers? It would be an outrage.”

The aria ends and when Malibran, in all her dark Italian beauty, comes to center stage, Franz goes as far as to stand during the ovation. Frederic, naturally, remains seated because, “The composer is the heart of the piece, the others are simply players.”

Intermission is short, only fifteen minutes, but it’s long enough for Franz to procure two glasses of wine and he makes an honest attempt to pull Frederic from his loathsome mood, but there’s truly no helping him.

“You should have brought Felix with you instead. He also has a great adoration for that woman.” The older pianist takes a long drink from his glass and sets it down and suddenly, the patterns on the armrest separating him and the other pianist seems of utmost importance. “I’m sure you’d enjoy the friendly competition to see who can gain first entry to her rooms after-”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Franz interrupts, slapping Frederic’s hand lightly, “You know Felix isn’t like that.”

The fact that Franz has always been able to make fun of himself is something he’s grateful for, especially because it draws a small smile from his grumpy friend.

“And besides,” he continues, brushing his fingertips along the fine veins of Frederic’s hand, up to his strong, pale wrists, “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted to make you jealous, _Chopinetto_.”

Frederic doesn’t pull his hand away, but neither does he allow Franz to tangle their fingers together.

“I’m not in the mood for your games,” he grumbles, all sense of humor lost, “You brought me here to indulge whatever strange pleasures you so often distract yourself with. There’s no room for both your obsession and I in this box, Franz.”

The music begins again, but Franz isn’t particularly paying attention to that anymore. His gaze is locked on Frederic, trying to think of a way to defoul his mood.

“Look at me.”

He’s thankful when Frederic meets his gaze, taking note at how tired

“I brought you here because I know how much you love this Italian drivel,” Franz tells him, brushing his long fingers along Frederic’s neck, “I know you love to argue with me and anyone else who doesn’t agree with every wispy word that comes from that ridiculous mouth of yours.”

Frederic opens his mouth to argue, but Franz’s thumb is brushing along his lower lip, silencing him with a gentle caress.

“You’re fine, Frederic.”

He leans in and kisses the corner of Frederic’s mouth, barely brushing past his lips and he’s struck by the tenderness with which Frederic responds.

It’s enough to quell his agitation, and enough for Franz to remember why he cares for Frederic so deeply.


End file.
